


Compromise

by scullyseviltwin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-13
Updated: 2014-03-13
Packaged: 2018-01-15 14:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1308946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/pseuds/scullyseviltwin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I love you. And I’m… I’m fucking <i>angry</i>.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Compromise

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to Allison, who really had to overhaul my verb usage in this. And to Erin who took a brief _glance_ at this and then screwed off to Mexico.

He was so far across the bed, so incredibly far away. The no man’s land between them - created after a rather boisterous argument over the test tubes in the sink had grown into a full fledged fight - was cold and empty and _so large_. Sherlock reached out a hand and laid it palm down on the duvet, skin warming the expanse it covered.

Two feet away, John shifted, shoulders hunching in ever so slightly more. His legs were drawn up towards his middle and he had both fists curled on either side of the pillow. And they _were_ fists; John’s hands hadn’t unfurled for the duration of the evening, even when he’d climbed into bed without a word. He was fuming, silent and very obviously awake.

Sherlock wasn’t too proud to apologize; he simply couldn’t understand why John had gotten so worked up in the first place. The tubes had been in the sink and there was nothing abrasive or noxious in them, so what did it actually matter that they were in the sink if Sherlock intended to wash them… at some point? John had found several reasons that it mattered and had spelled out each and every one to Sherlock in an increasingly loud voice until they both snapped and had begun yelling at one another.

Sherlock had called John pedantic and simple and _boring_.

John had hollered about Sherlock’s inability to understand anything at all about him; John had said that he was mad for ever entertaining the notion that Sherlock could maintain a romantic relationship with anyone. “But that’s _my_ fault,” he’d hissed viciously.

He’d then grasped one of the dirty test tubes and tossed it - hard - against the open kitchen door. It shattered and the pieces fell with a delicate little tinkling, showering onto the floor. “Good it’s not _noxious_! I’m done!” he’d said before stomping into the living room and retrieving his coat. John left Sherlock standing, fuming and _confused_ , in the kitchen.

He’d jumped when the front door slammed closed. 

Sherlock had spent long minutes making a circuit of the kitchen, pulling up short in front of the test tube detritus each time he passed. He’d done this so many times, left his equipment to be tidied later; John had never reacted in such a volatile manner before. He’d shifted the pile of glass up against and under the door with the side of his slipper-clad foot and stepped over to the sink.

He’d then carefully washed each and every one of the remaining test tubes and rested them gently upside down in their holders to dry. Resting one fingertip against the last of the tubes, he’d thought of texting John, _wanted_ to text John that he’d cleaned up, but he didn’t _have_ to apologize, he hadn’t done anything _wrong_ and a text like that would make it seem like he was conceding.

For a good three hours he had paced the flat, flung himself onto the sofa only to spring up and glance out the window. It was maddening and dizzying and he hated himself for it and he’d retired to bed near midnight, snuggling down into the heavy bedclothes and staring dejectedly at the window of his room. He’d tossed from one side to the other and had finally managed to doze off when he’d heard the sound of a key in the door. 

Sherlock had sat up straight in the bed, hair all askew, and waited. It was a moment and then two, and then heavy treads sounded up the steps. Sherlock had slipped immediately back down under the covers; he would just avoid John so as not to further the argument if John came to bed (and he’d hoped he would, more than anything - Sherlock had gotten used to going to sleep with John, to having John beside him).

If John hadn’t come to bed, well, he hadn’t really entertained that notion.

Sherlock had thought on it for a moment, about John not coming to bed, and felt the center of his stomach fall out and his world skew heavily on its axis. He _needed_ John, Sherlock had realized, needed the weight of his body next to him. He’d waited impatiently, hunkered down in the bed, both eyes cracked just slightly. The second-to-last step had creaked, and Sherlock had held his breath when there was no sound for long seconds.

But John’s footsteps had carried him down the hall and into Sherlock’s room. He’d lingered in the doorway and stared down at Sherlock, sighed, and stepped over the threshold. A silent victory. Sherlock had allowed his eyes to fall closed as he listened to John prepare himself for bed. He’d disappeared for a minute, presumably to brush his teeth, as Sherlock had heard the tap turn on. 

John had grumbled to himself as he’d climbed into bed, as far on the right side as possible, tugging the blankets up and over his shoulders with rough hands. 

And now, now John had been in bed with him for over an hour, back to Sherlock, awake. His breathing was even and he was completely and utterly motionless, so much so that Sherlock was almost concerned. He just wanted to _touch_ John and not think about why he wanted to touch John so much and forget that they had said such horrible things to one another.

And John was _so_ far across the bed. Sherlock resented him for it momentarily; it was John’s fault that they’d had this argument in the first place, really. Did he expect Sherlock to _change_? He’d been very plain when they’d entered into this that just because bodily fluids were exchanged and regular words of affection shared, Sherlock wasn’t going to magically become _normal_ or _better_ or whatever John normally sought in relationships.

If he were going to change for anyone, it would have most certainly been for John. But Sherlock _couldn’t_ ; he wanted to, but he was who he was. Sherlock curled his fingers into the duvet and frowned.

Suddenly he felt very, hopelessly alone with John over on the other side of the bed. That was the easiest and the nicest thing about being with John; he always knew when to indulge Sherlock and his need for tactile comfort. John quieted him when he raged and humored him when Sherlock needed to crush him to his chest and kiss him just because he could. Sherlock didn’t have to say a thing, could just nestle into John and be rewarded with quiet, calm affection.

John was _it_ ; John was intrinsic, and Sherlock _loved_ him. Desperately, in that hopeless way that made his chest feel far too restrictive yet expanding beyond his body. Sherlock loved him in a way he was sure of, like he knew the atomic number of tin, it was a fact. It was something he was so sure of that he sometimes forgot that he had to nurture it. 

Sherlock reached out, touched John’s shoulder with the tips of his fingers and left them there. They rested there for only a short moment before John reached up a hand of his own and shoved them away. Sherlock swallowed thickly and did it again, lifting his hand and laying it on his bicep.

Immediately, John slapped it away, hard.

Sherlock pulled away as expected but went right back in and John gave him a lighter slap, and then another and another until John had rolled onto his back and was slapping half-heartedly at Sherlock’s hand. It didn’t take much for Sherlock to reach over and scoop John into the curve of his body, the other man struggling weakly all the way, like maybe that’s where he wanted to be.

Sherlock tucked him in, settling his chin against John’s skull, and held him until his squirming calmed entirely. “You can’t manhandle me into forgiving you,” John grumbled, gathered tightly in, giving one last feeble struggle.

Sherlock’s chin jostled John’s head when he said, carefully, “I know.” 

John was quiet for a long, long time; if Sherlock hadn’t been pressed right up against him, regulating his breathing with a palm to his chest, he might have been fooled into believing John _was_ asleep now. “You don’t. You don’t think you did anything _wrong_.”

Sherlock glanced down at the top of John’s head and then resettled his chin there. “I didn’t; I’ve done this for ages, many, many times before but... we’re learning this, aren’t we? To compromise?”

“I shouldn’t have to…” John’s tone was clipped and angry and Sherlock did his level best not to sigh in irritation. 

“I _know_ ,” Sherlock whispered, pressing his lips down into John’s hair. 

“And I know you’re trying,” John said as Sherlock slipped his hand down to rest over the curve of John’s hip. He could feel him breathing, feel his heart thrumming. “Sometimes it doesn’t feel like you are.”

“I know.”

“Stop… stop, just stop saying that.” John sighed. “I’m sorry I just… stormed out like that.”

“I’m sorry I left the test tubes in the sink.”

“No you’re not.”

“I’m not, but… I did wash them.”

John sighed and tried to turn his head. “Sherlock-”

“I love you,” Sherlock murmured, his chin again jostling against John’s head. “I’m not saying that because I want you to-”

“I _know_ , you idiot, I love you too, I just… we both overreacted and I _love_ you, Christ, we need to…”

“What?”

John huffed, “I don’t know, I just don’t know right now.”

“Are you going to…” Sherlock wasn’t sure how he wanted to finish the sentence.

John pressed back into him, shifting slightly onto his back so that he could pull Sherlock’s mouth down onto his. “I love you. And I’m… I’m fucking _angry_.”

Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s once, just barely. “I am _aware_.”

“It just gets to be a lot sometimes. It’s… a lot when you just pile on and I… I’m tired and stressed and Sherlock Holmes, sometimes you are _a lot_ to deal with. But I want to go to sleep, with you, and I want you to hold me and we’ll see where we are in the morning, yeah?”

“Sentiment,” came Sherlock’s quiet little wisp of an answer.

Something rumbled through John’s chest and he turned swiftly, tucking his nose into the hollow of Sherlock’s throat, kissed him there, once. “Really? Okay? Shut the fuck up.”

“Right,” Sherlock said quietly, dropping a last, lingering kiss to John’s temple. “Yes.”


End file.
